


Why Did Helene Scream I Think About This Every Goddamn Day

by agentmargaretcarter



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Gen, Neglect, Possessivness, slight abusive behavior, stealing lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 16:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13414917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentmargaretcarter/pseuds/agentmargaretcarter
Summary: Why did Helene scream during “the Duel” for Pierre but not Dolokhov. Why.





	Why Did Helene Scream I Think About This Every Goddamn Day

The one thing Pierre and Helene had in common was their love of drinking. She couldn’t understand his reasons, mostly because Pierre couldn’t fathom them himself, but she was well-acquainted with hers. She drank to have fun.  
“God to think I married a man like you,” she spat at her husband. She meant it. A sweet and smart man of high status, and she almost felt she didn’t deserve him; and he certainly didn’t seem to pay any mind to her. He would support her habits, and was nothing but kind to her, but by no stretch of the imagination was their love in their relationship. He was a friend, and they had an arrangement. Helene only hoped that reciprocated coldness would carry them comfortably into old age.  
Dolokhov was on her level. She could dance with him and not feel dirty, because he was as lowly as she thought she was. On top of it, maybe he cared about her.  
Pierre looked up with her and replied, “Don’t speak to me, wife. There is something inside me.” He looked purely repulsed by Helene’s presence.  
It hurt. “Dolokhov, pour me another!” she hollered.  
Pierre muttered to himself, “Something terrible and monstrous.” The revulsion shifted to pain, and she could have sworn that his eyes were welling with tears. She reached a tender hand out to pat his shoulder.  
Dolokhov swung his arm around Pierre’s shoulder and began pouring in Helene’s glass. “Here’s to the health of married women!” A smile lurked at the corner of Dolokhov’s mouth.  
While he poured Pierre’s drink, he began to repeat himself,“Here’s to the health of married women–“ Helene glared at him and gritted her teeth, warning him with her expression not to try anything.”–and their lovers!”  
He swept her off to the dance floor. Though she was irritated with him, she couldn’t help but melt in his arms.  
Suddenly a big hand pulled her away. “How dare you touch her!”  
“You can’t love her!” Dolokhov shouted. /He loved her?/  
“ENOUGH!” The whole club went silent at Pierre’s scream. “You bully, you scoundrel! I challenge you.”  
Dolokhov shifted into his usual calm arrogance. “Oh, a duel,” he said. “Now this is what I like!”  
From behind Pierre, Helene said, “He will kill you, stupid husband.”  
He whirled around to face her. The tears from before had spilled over. “So I shall be killed! What is it to you?”  
/What was it to her?/  
“Anatole, my guns!”  
Helene’s brother appeared. “Oh! This is horribly stupid.”  
Dolokhov was already ready, his finger itching at the trigger. “Let’s begin. This is child’s play.”  
Denisov began an calling out rules and Helene considered her affections for the two men who were fighting. Dolokhov loved her, was willing to shoot her husband to keep her. Her husband didn’t love her, but didn’t deserve to die.  
She remembered their betrothal, arranged, and the way Pierre took her hand softly when he first kissed it. She remembered having to comfort him when he broke down because he felt so bad about taking her away from her family. She remembered some of the early days where he really made an effort to care for her, and now she realized she’d never done enough back. Both of them were responsible for having drifted apart. Some part of her still cared about him.  
She was clinging to her brother and thinking of all of this. She wasn’t present. Anatole’s frantic “Not yet!” was heard like it was five rooms away. The gunshot was much louder.  
“No!” She was surprised to hear Dolokhov’s voice. She looked up. Shot in the shoulder.  
“No wait, I didn’t mean it–“ sputtered Pierre. There was the man she’d first married, so meek, not a hint of maliciousness in his soul.  
“Quiet, old man! My turn!”  
She watched as Pierre held out his arms and lowered his head. “My turn,” he said solemnly.  
“Pierre, stand back!” shouted Anatole.  
Helene watched with growing horror, and when Dolokhov fired she couldn’t help but scream, “No!”  
Pierre was fine. He’d won.  
Helene muttered something to the doctor on site, and watched tenderly as patrons helped escort Dolokhov into another room. She loved him too.  
But right next to her was her friend, who had almost killed Dolokhov and himself. Maybe they never were friends. Maybe it was the vodka and wanting to think she hadn’t wasted so many years of her life.  
“You are a fool,” she said. Pierre looked down, then walked away.  
She moved to go follow Dolokhov, but Anatole stopped her. “Well sweet sister, you certainly bring out the beast in men.”  
“What can I say? It’s a gift.” And she realized then how Pierre had done what many would have seen as defending her, preserving her honor. Maybe he cared and she was the cold one. Maybe they were doomed to never understand.  
She felt more and more dejected as her thoughts spiraled, so she simply agreed to what her brother asked of her.


End file.
